


Drowning from the Inside Out

by Anonymous



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: And they are Not Nice folks, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Gen, Mental Health Issues, This story centers almost entirely around the 3 V's, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28654635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Marzi has been in hell just long enough to find a place for herself in Pentagram City, though she's not sure if that's a good or a bad thing. Demons are making their ways into her second life, some new and some familiar. She is, finally, finding her way in this strange new world. The clock in the town square is ticking.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1
Collections: Anonymous





	Drowning from the Inside Out

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. I hope you enjoy this story. I'm... not 100% sure of where this is going to go as of this moment (I've never been one to formally plot out stories, but this is new territory for me and given how hectic my life has been going I think I'd be better off posting this sooner rather than later. Motivation is a funny thing haha), and I will be updating tags as this goes along. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)

There was a girl vomiting in the second floor bathroom, and Marzi couldn’t help but be a little bit upset by it. Maybe it was terrible of her to be so annoyed, but she had just cleaned the damned thing fifteen minutes ago. It had been an awful, hideous mess then, and judging by the sounds the girl was making, it was an awful, hideous mess now. 

The girl had gone in with tears and makeup streaming down her face, and she’d stuck around because of it. But then the retching started, and Marzi didn’t even know how to comfort crying girls, much less crying sick girls. Her sense of duty, both to the girl and the bathroom in which she resided, kept her around. 

Another ten minutes passed. The wailing quieted, giving way to sniffling and the occasional wet sob. Marzi felt bad. She should have gone in twenty minutes ago, but now it was too late (the girl had shoved her aside to get to the toilet, would she remember her?) and this was going to be awkward. There was no way it _wasn’t_ going to be awkward, and Marzi couldn’t bring herself to knock because of it. 

Inside, a toilet flushed. Fabric rustled. The tap ran and shut off again. Marzi hugged the bucket of cleaning supplies, putting comforting hard plastic between the door and her chest. 

The door swung open, and Marzi jumped back to avoid being hit by it. The wood slammed into the wall, and she flinched. Inside the bathroom, the girl glared at her, looking much taller and angrier than she had been twenty five minutes ago. 

Well. This was just grand. Marzi gulped down a breath of air. “I’m here to clean the bathroom,” she said, because there was nothing else she could think to say. 

“Obviously, idiot. _Move_.” 

She didn’t have to be told twice. Marzi skittered to the side, dropping a scrub brush in her haste (damned hooves). That was okay. It was as good as dead to her now. The alarmingly tall, angry girl was the only thing on her mind. 

Said alarmingly tall and angry girl was openly glaring at her, eyes narrowed into blazing red slits. Marzi wanted to run, but she had _just_ gotten this job, damn it, and even though being an overnight janitor was nothing to be proud of, it was still the only thing keeping her off the streets! And she _hated_ the streets! Her feet, for better or worse, rooted her in place, up against the wall, within striking distance. The girl took a step forward, and then another. Then, a knife was at her neck. Its blade hovered at her throat. 

Suddenly, Marzi knew who this girl was, and the knife at her throat didn’t matter anymore. Nothing had mattered for a long time, really, and she’d been here before, and nothing drained fear away better than this familiar apathy did. 

“Well?” the girl asked, lip curled. 

“I’m sorry,” Marzi said, in the voice that hadn’t even felt like hers before. “I didn’t mean to get in your way. It was stupid of me to do that. I won’t do it again. I’m sorry.” 

“Are you trying to be cute with me? It isn’t working.” 

The blade was cool against her skin. “I’m not trying to be cute.” 

“Do you know who I am?” 

Working here, Marzi had heard that before. Not only was she working for T.V. personalities, but this was _hell_ , so she was working for the worst, most obnoxious, narcissistic T.V. personalities that had ever lived. She heard that question multiple times a day, and after the first week she hadn’t even bothered keeping track of who asked it. Picking a name from her catalog of entitled bitches would be the equivalent of trying to find a needle in a haystack blindfolded. 

“I don’t know you,” Marzi said. “Which department do you work in?” 

It was always better to frame hosts as working _in_ a department rather than _for_ it, to avoid giving off the impression that she didn’t believe they were gracing the company with their presence, that them working here was more an act of charity than a job. _She_ was the one working a job. 

“You _cannot_ be serious.” The girl’s face scrunched up. 

“No, I’m serious,” Marzi insisted. It was time to rinse and repeat. “I’m sorry. I’m new here, and I’m having a hard time with all the names. I’ve never worked for a company with this many people in it before. Those are just excuses -- and bad ones too -- I know, but I’m trying, really. I’m sor--” 

“No, you _moron_. I don’t _work_ here. _Honestly_.” She wiped at her face, which only smeared her makeup more. Marzi was not about to point that out, especially since she’d done the smearing with her knife hand. The girl rolled her eyes. “I’m, like, too big of a fucking deal for that.” 

“Um--” 

“Do you live under a rock?” 

The girl was being cruel, and needlessly so, but the question still brought Marzi a sense of relief. She was no longer treading water anymore, but paddling back to shore. And as long as this girl was only _figuratively_ twisting the knife, she could deal with that. 

“I’m sorry.” 

The girl rolled her eyes again. “Ugh, seriously, what’s Vox doing hiring all of these country fucking bumpkins?” 

Marzi stared, unblinking. She had never been good at snappy comebacks, but she liked to believe that had this girl not causally name-dropped her boss’s _boss’s_ boss, she might have said something clever. 

“It’s _Velvet_.” The girl said, prodding a sharp index finger into Marzi’s chest with each syllable for greater effect. “Hope you’re good enough with names to remember _that_ , or you won’t have to keep _trying_ for much longer, _kid_.” 

Marzi nodded vigorously, and Velvet snickered at her (clearly thinking she’d said something incredibly clever, which she _really_ hadn’t), half-covering her grin with a dainty hand. Then, she turned and skipped away. Literally _skipped_. Unbelievable. _Ridiculous_. 

She turned to look at the clock. It was three o’clock in the morning, or whatever bastard equivalent to morning this sunless hell had. Marzi had been standing outside of the bathroom for nearly forty minutes, which was _definitely_ going to get her in trouble with her boss (though he didn’t feel like that big of a deal anymore). She should’ve left the girl to her toilet, should have walked away. Stupid. She was so _stupid_. 

She forced the thoughts down. Like they were going to make anything any better. She knelt down and scooped up the fallen scrub brush with her terrible, useless hands. There were better things to do than worry. She had bathrooms to clean. Marzi took a deep breath, steeling herself. Bringing herself back. Steadying her shallow breathing. 

At seven minutes past three, still a little uncertain on her feet, she marched inside and got back to work. 


End file.
